Dances With Wolves

CHAPTER III

The only sign of life was the ragged piece of canvas flapping gently in the doorway of the collapsed supply house. The late afternoon breeze was up, but the only thing that moved was the shred of canvas.

Had it not been for the lettering, crudely gouged in the beam over Captain Cargill’s late residence, Lieutenant Dunbar could not have believed this was the place. But it was spelled out clearly.

“Fort Sedgewick.”

The men sat silently on the wagon seat, staring about at the skimpy ruin that had turned out to be their final destination.

At last Lieutenant Dunbar hopped down and stepped cautiously through Cargill’s doorway. Seconds later he emerged and glanced at Timmons, who was still in the wagon.

“Not what you’d call a goin’ concern,” Timmons shouted down.

But the lieutenant didn’t answer. He walked to the supply house, pulled the canvas flap aside, and leaned in. There was nothing to see, and in a moment he was walking back to the wagon.

Timmons stared down at him and started to shake his head.

“May as well unload,” the lieutenant said matter-of-factly.

“What for, Lieutenant?”

“Because we’ve arrived.”

Timmons squirmed on the seat. “There ain’t nothin’ here,” he croaked.

Lieutenant Dunbar glanced around at his post.

“Not at the moment, no.”

A silence passed between them, a silence that carried the tension of a standoff. Dunbar’s arms hung at his sides while Timmons fingered the team’s reins. He spat over the side of the wagon.

“Everybody’s run off . . . or got kilt.” He was glaring hard at the lieutenant, as if he wasn’t going to have any more of this nonsense. “We might jus’ as well turn ‘round and get started back.”

But Lieutenant Dunbar had no intention of going back. What had happened to Fort Sedgewick was something for finding out. Perhaps everyone had run off and perhaps they were all dead. Perhaps there were survivors, only an hour away, struggling to reach the fort.

And there was a deeper reason for his staying, something beyond his sharp sense of duty. There are times when a person wants something so badly that price or condition cease to be obstacles. Lieutenant Dunbar had wanted the frontier most of all. And now he was here. What Fort Sedgewick looked like or what its circumstances were didn’t matter to him. His heart was set.

So his eyes never wavered as he spoke, his voice flat and dispassionate.

“This is my post and those are the post’s provisions.”

They stared each other down again. A smile broke on Timmons’s mouth. He laughed.

“Are you crazy, boy?”

Timmons said this knowing that the lieutenant was a pup, that he had probably never been in combat, that he had never been west, and that he had not lived long enough to know anything. “Are you crazy, boy?” The words had come as though from the mouth of a fed-up father.

He was wrong.

Lieutenant Dunbar was not a pup. He was gentle and dutiful, and at times he was sweet. But he was not a pup.

He had seen combat nearly all his life. And he had been successful in combat because he possessed a rare trait. Dunbar had an inborn sense, a kind of sixth sense, that told him when to be tough. And when this critical moment was upon him, something intangible kicked into his psyche and Lieutenant Dunbar became a mindless, lethal machine that couldn’t be turned off. Not until it had accomplished its objective. When push came to shove, the lieutenant pushed first. And those that shoved back regretted doing so.

The words “Are you crazy, boy?” had tripped the mechanism of the machine, and Timmons’s smile began a slow fade as he watched Lieutenant Dunbar’s eyes turn black. A moment later Timmons saw the lieutenant’s right hand lift, slowly and deliberately. He saw the heel of Dunbar’s hand light softly on the handle of the big Navy revolver he wore on his hip. He saw the lieutenant’s index finger slip smoothly through the trigger guard.

“Get your ass off that wagon and help me unload.”

The tone of these words had a profound effect on Timmons. The tone told him that death had suddenly appeared on the scene. His own death.

Timmons didn’t bat an eye. Nor did he make a reply. Almost in a single motion he tied the reins to the brake, leaped down from his seat, walked briskly to the rear of the wagon, threw open the tailgate, and lifted out the first item of portage he could put his hands on.

They crammed as much as they could into the half-caved-in supply house and stacked the rest in Cargill’s former quarters.